


Complete

by tenderly_wicked



Series: Dark!John [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fisting, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: After John learns Irene Adler keeps texting Sherlock and Sherlock answers her sometimes, he can’t calm down. Of course Sherlock deserves a chance at something more or less normal, if a romantic entanglement with a lunatic dominatrix counts as such… But John isn’t an entirely selfless man, no matter how much he dislikes it and pretends to be otherwise. He’s not happy about this situation at all, despite his best efforts to do what’s right.This takes place right after the events of “The Lying Detective”. You don’t need to read other parts of the series, unless you want more kinky stuff mixed with some angst. :)





	Complete

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss)!

“You had a cake. How about a birthday present?”

Maybe it’s a wrong question to ask, though it’s seemingly innocent. But in the end, John can’t seem to stop himself.

Sherlock's birthday has been delightfully uneventful and ordinary so far: slices of chocolate something, tea, and best wishes from Molly in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone. Sherlock tries his best to pretend he is enjoying himself, also in an overly enthusiastic manner. Molly looks at him with a nervous smile and steals questioning side glances at John now and then. John pretends not to notice. Yeah, Sherlock is far from being fine, it’s hard not to see that, even for unobservant people like him. But what should he do? What should he have done?

Or more exactly, what he shouldn’t have. Remorse keeps scratching his mind from the inside like sandpaper.

Unfortunately, the café has no licence for alcohol beverages, or John might have ordered himself a different drink rather than just tea. On second thought, maybe it _is_ fortunate, considering his recent history of drinking and his family history in general.

Sherlock isn’t the only addict in here, only he went full speed down that road while John still manages to be discreet about it. He’s had a lot of practise in hiding his true self. No wonder he’s good at it. Only his mood swings give him away. Undignified crying and fits of rage are equally embarrassing, and the latter problem is also unpredictably dangerous. John tells himself he’s not like Harry, at least not yet. But the mere fact he's comparing himself to his alcoholic sister should probably be a tad alarming.

Anyway, however wrong it might be, John wouldn’t turn down a pint, maybe with an additional shot of something stronger in it, just like on his bachelor pub crawl with Sherlock. The thought of it makes him feel uncomfortable, not because the memory is a bad one, more like the opposite, despite them both having spent most of the night in the nick. They ended up doing some rather indecent things in there—weren’t bachelor parties all about doing indecent things?—and John had been rough, maybe too rough. Partly because he'd been drunk and pissed off over them having been arrested—and maybe just a tiny bit excited that they might be caught in the process. And partly because putting as many bruises and bite marks on Sherlock’s body as he could manage seemed like a parting gift Sherlock would enjoy.

But before that…there had been that warm and cosy moment when they fell asleep on the stairs and John forgot he was getting married and everything seemed to be fine. Awkwardly fine because lying on the wooden steps wasn’t really comfortable and his ribs hurt a little, but still.

And then there was his wedding. And several other things besides, until they both came to where they are now, John drinking himself to the point of hallucinating and Sherlock experimenting with illegal substances to the same extent.

What John wants to wash away with booze this very moment, though—it isn’t guilt or regret. He’s probably too infected with them for alcohol to cure. No, it’s the thought of Sherlock and Irene Adler. Together.

John was sincere when he tried to persuade Sherlock he should call her back. Or more exactly, he wanted to be sincere. He wishes Sherlock well, doesn’t he? Sherlock deserves a chance at something more or less normal, if a romantic entanglement with a lunatic dominatrix counts as such. But… Oh well, John isn’t an entirely selfless man, and he knows it, so why pretend—he’s definitely _not_ happy about this Irene Adler situation, despite his best efforts to do what’s right, just this once.

A feral, possessive longing, that’s what he feels. The need to claim what was his once, to do it in the most brutal, most cruel way, and to hell with good intentions.

Hence this question about a birthday present, in a low, raspy voice. An invitation to read into it whatever Sherlock wants to. It makes Sherlock stare at him, openly, all pretence forgotten. There’s apprehensive hope in his eyes, and John can’t help a crooked smile. _Oh yes, clever boy, you know what my presents usually are. Surprises, but always of a certain kind._

It’s nice to have an understanding without having to say anything else. If John had any doubts whether Sherlock would be eager to be his whore again, now there’s no uncertainty about it.

John excuses himself to make a call. He feels rotten for leaving Rosie with someone else for so long and for inconveniencing his voluntary babysitters, but it’s a familiar feeling anyway, nothing new. He returns to awkward silence, but it’s fine, too.

Molly might suspect there’s something going on between them, but John doesn’t care, not now. He’s always been careful, wearing a mask of a civilised man, waving off all gossip about him and Sherlock, but this very moment, the need to take Sherlock apart is like a searing pain, almost unbearable, so he can’t focus on worrying about anything else. Besides, nowadays, if he behaves strangely, everyone says it’s understandable. Though why does everything have to be understandable?

After bidding goodbye to Molly, Sherlock doesn’t say anything on the way home—no, not home anymore. Sherlock’s flat. John casts hungry glances at him as they sit side by side in a taxi, John’s knee touching Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock is gazing downwards, almost demurely. His left eye is still bloodshot. John’s doing. Another reason to feel guilty.

As Sherlock opens the front door of 221B, John’s hand comes to rest on the small of his back. Sherlock doesn’t comment on it. John lets Sherlock take off his coat and the silly hat in the hallway and follows him upstairs, still in silence, but his hand skims lower. Not pressing, just a presence.

In the living room, Sherlock finally turns round. “A present, you said?”

“Strip. Clean yourself. Bedroom afterwards.”

Sherlock lingers, and it should earn him a reprimand, but John is generous. He allows Sherlock time to process the information. Three seconds before he snaps his fingers in front of Sherlock’s face. “This century, please.”

It makes Sherlock wake up from his stupor, and he hurries to the bathroom. Good. All the old reflexes are there, despite everything that has happened lately.

Meanwhile, John wanders around the flat aimlessly, bursting with anticipation. He rolls up the sleeves of his dark button-up shirt; Sherlock likes it when he’s dressed in black instead of his usual jumpers and cheap chequered shirts he wears for work. All sinister and menacing instead of plain and cuddly and kind.

He knows where the necessary supplies must be, but checks anyway, in case they have been misplaced during his absence, just like the coffee was. It’s unlikely Sherlock let that woman, Janine, mess with his index of sex toys, he’s too fastidious, but she might have been nosy…and he might have been too distraught afterwards to put everything back to order.

Mrs Hudson has confiscated the handcuffs from the salad drawer, but that’s okay. Sherlock is so hungry for attention that he is likely to endure anything without restraints. Anything at all.

Sherlock lying on the unmade bed, naked, among the crumpled sheets, looks very picturesque. A few days’ beard growth in contrast to his smooth, white skin unexpectedly adds vulnerability to his appearance. A sign of how neglectful he’s been to the perfection he still is.

If John had any artistic talent, he’d want to draw him. Instead, he pushes the duvet entirely out of the way and orders, “On your back. Present yourself to me.”

He avoids looking at the puncture marks dotting the underside of Sherlock’s arms. Another sign of negligence.

John kneels on the mattress between Sherlock’s legs, keeps them open with his own. Circles Sherlock’s anus with his index finger.

“Almost virginally tight, huh? It’s been a while since this hole got enough exercise, so it might take some time. But we’ll get there eventually.”

“Get where?”

“I’m going to fist you, put my entire hand into your anus. Give you a new experience as a gift.”

He doesn’t ask, _Would you like that, Sherlock_? Because there’s a thing with presents—it’s impolite to turn them down. And Sherlock knows the consequences of being rude.

It takes John a while indeed, working him open. He uses plenty of lubricant. He uses an array of toys, larger and larger. Not because he’s _kind_ , oh no. He enjoys Sherlock’s exasperation, the small sounds he makes. An inflatable butt plug gets him especially excited.

When John thinks Sherlock is ready, he puts on a latex examination glove, applies more lube. Sherlock is desperately aroused by now, watching him with pleading eyes.

“You’re lucky I’m a doctor,” John says. “A professional, good at anatomy. An amateur might have tried to fit his whole fist in at once. It would have been very, very painful.”

He inserts his fingers, unhurriedly, to form a “V” shape, with four of them coming together in a point like a bird’s beak and the thumb folded over in the palm. The difficult part is getting past the knuckles, since this is the widest part of the hand.

“John?”

It comes out like a moan. Sherlock doesn’t dare to ask, _Are you sure about this_? But he clearly wants to.

“Behave,” John tells him sternly. “Bear down. Yes, good.”

Afterwards, it gets easier, at least for John. The rest of his hand is naturally pulled in—and his fingers curl into a ball. He stops for a short while, letting Sherlock get used to the sensation, maybe too intense. Sherlock looks both astonished and spaced out.

“Try to rhythmically clench and release your muscles,” John recommends, in his considerate doctor tone. He’s glad Sherlock is facing him. It’s most pleasing to watch for his reactions, to see the need and fear and resignation.

It’s strange and exciting to find Sherlock still so compliant, still willing to let John own and debauch him like this, despite his doubts. It’s a heady feeling. Maybe also somewhat disturbing. Is it trust on Sherlock’s part? But why would Sherlock trust him _now_? Is it just a habit?

Experimenting, John tries to slowly rotate his hand and lightly flex his thumb and fingers. It earns him a series of incoherent pleas that turn into low, strangled keening. It’s nice to reduce Sherlock, usually so composed, to a whimpering, inarticulate mess, and by such simple means.

“Feel good?” John asks.

“Like…like an earthquake,” Sherlock manages to utter.

John pleasures—or torments him some more before suggesting, “Maybe it’s time to stimulate your other body parts. Would you like that, Sherlock? Just nod if you do. That’s a good slut. Stroke yourself then.”

Sherlock hasn’t touched himself yet, waiting for John’s permission, and now he’s overeager to obey, driven to the point where no dignity is left. The awareness that Sherlock is so full of him is thrilling by itself, but seeing how turned on he is…it almost makes John spill in his pants. It’s more than intimate, feeling the spasms of Sherlock’s orgasm from the inside of his body. It’s like being one with him.

While Sherlock is still shaking with aftershocks, John pulls out, more or less gently, having returned his hand to the ‘silent duck’ shape. He’d be glad to continue, but his own cock is demanding release too insistently.

Sherlock’s loosened hole is so inviting.

John snaps the ruined glove from his hand, unzips his fly, and smiles into Sherlock’s dazed face.

“I like it when you’re so open for me.”

Just a few strokes—and he comes onto Sherlock’s poor abused anus and the tender flesh around it, making more mess. He should have laid down a sheet to catch any excess lubricant and bodily fluids, but now it’s too late. Besides, he rather enjoys the sight. Sherlock looks so good, covered in come, so contented, so…happy?

It’s a pang of anguish, to see him like that and know it’s temporary.

Something must show on John’s face because Sherlock suddenly frowns, and the blissed-out, relaxed expression dissipates as if it’s never been there—just a phantom over the usual wary tiredness. Turning away, suddenly awkward, John finds paper tissues, hands them to Sherlock. They both clean themselves in silence. It’s as if a cord that bound them together for a short while has been suddenly cut in the middle, and they have been left with its useless halves.

Now John wishes it all had lasted longer. If he hadn't been so impatient to come, he could have kept Sherlock enslaved, owned, impaled on his fist, unable to escape—for as long as he wanted. He could have made Sherlock rub himself again and again, until he was raw and spent. Maybe next time…

If there is a next time. Are they back to what they had, or was this a one time thing, just because they felt lonely and lost?

“So. Um. Until Monday?” John mumbles, hopeful. 

“Time’s up?” Sherlock inquires curtly. His words sound almost harsh. An accusation. He attempts to sit up and winces dramatically. Wraps himself in the folds of the crumpled, not-entirely-clean sheet, also with palpable annoyance.

“You want me to stay?” John asks gingerly. Maybe he’s interpreting Sherlock’s mood in his favour and Sherlock is going to say, _Of course not, why would I need you?_

Instead, Sherlock huffs out an angry, sardonic laugh. “What does it matter? Since when is it of any importance what I want? You seem to know better what’s good for me. If I behave, I’ll be rewarded with a friendly visit now and then, like this one. And meanwhile—'Get on with your life, Sherlock, find someone. Take your chance. Go shag anyone who’s interested. Have a night of passion in High Wycombe. You’ll feel so much better. You’ll feel complete'.”

He almost spits the last word out with disdain.

“But I thought you were interested as well,” John protests indignantly, taken aback by this outburst.

“I was interested in Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock bites back. “You didn’t approve of that for some reason.”

So he’s not in love with her. To John’s shame, it’s visceral relief that floods over him. He meant well. He really did. At least rationally. But deep inside, there was this dark, selfish anger at the thought of Sherlock having a night of passion with someone else.

Sherlock rubs both hands over his face, drops them abruptly into his lap. When he starts speaking, he keeps his gaze lowered.

“John, if your suggestion was only meant to lighten your conscience, don’t worry. I know you’ll always be looking for something else, apart from _this_ …” He makes a vague, airy gesture. “That’s how you were brought up, that’s what you’re _supposed_ to want. Something ordinary. Nice. Like that girl on the bus. And with me…you can have what you need. Go back to normal now and then. Look for a romantic entanglement, as you call it. Flirting, dating, having dinners with women. As if it would miraculously fix you and stop you from craving what you think is indecent—dark things, dirty things, things you’d rather not talk about. And meanwhile, I’ll be waiting. That’s what I do. I wait. I never asked you for anything.” He pauses, plucking at the hem of the sheet, then finally looks up. “But I want to ask you this, now. Don’t try to fix me, too, by setting me up with someone else who might want me. Do you think The Woman might be my back-up plan? I never had a back-up plan. Unlike you.”

“You pretended to be dead for two years! What did you expect? Me, mourning you for decades?” John bursts out. Why is everything always his fault?

Sherlock regards him coldly. “Are you telling me you never slept with anyone but me before? All the while we were fucking? And don’t even try to tell me off for foul language. Because that’s what we were doing. Surely, you wouldn’t call it lovemaking?”

And that’s…partly true. They were on and off. No strings attached. John made no secret of his occasional dates, and Sherlock never said anything, not to John. He never held back his quick-fire snide remarks whenever John’s girlfriends came by, but on the other hand, he’d never been known for being delicate, so it might have been accidental. John admits he’s never been delicate either, in his deeds rather than words. Maybe not deliberately either because Sherlock seemed to be fine with it.

But as for lovemaking…what is lovemaking meant to be? Kisses and cuddling? Or a fiery, sparking connection, almost unbearable in its intensity?

John clears his throat. “Uh. Erm. Would you rather we were exclusive?”

Sherlock winces, like John has made an insipid joke. “I know it’s unlikely. I prefer being realistic. This doesn’t mean I have to behave the way you do and think myself lucky to have a respite. I’d rather you order me not to contact her ever again.” He looks almost hopeful when he says, “You could punish me for texting her.”

John snorts. “Why would I?”

“Because you’re entitled,” Sherlock says quietly, gravely. “Just as well, you can order me to phone her and meet with her if that’s what you truly wish. But that would be much more…”

He falters, and John can’t but finish the sentence for him, “Cruel?”

For a moment, Sherlock looks at him without saying anything. 

“Was it intentional?” he finally inquires. He looks like he won’t be surprised. He looks like he’ll accept it if John says ‘Yes’. After all, John beat him, not just once, and shared him with Mary and others when Sherlock clearly didn’t want that, yet John’s armchair is still there, in the living room, as an invitation to stay.

It’s frightening, to imagine that it might not always be like that.

He told Sherlock, _Do something while there’s still a chance, because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me, Sherlock: it’s gone before you know it._ Funny, that.

He also said, I’m not the man you thought I was; I’m not that guy. I never could be. And his therapist would probably suggest that this speech was hardly meant only for a dead woman who couldn’t hear him.

John flexes the fingers of his left hand a few times, nervously. “I just…I wanted you to have a piece of what you’re missing when you’re with me. I know you like what we’re doing, whatever you call it, because it creates a sort of high, this intensity, but…”

Sherlock cuts him off, “If it’s only about getting high, why am I not doing this with someone else? Why don’t I want to? Or is it something I’m not currently equipped to understand?”

Maybe it’s something _John_ isn’t equipped to understand. Sherlock could have anyone. Not just the dominatrix. Why hasn’t he picked up someone else yet? When will he?

Sherlock saves him from trying to answer obviously rhetorical questions, both Sherlock’s and his own. He pulls the sheet tighter around his shoulders, as if he’s cold, and says in a more measured tone, though it still sounds strained, “Look. I understand you meant well. Probably. But don’t do that again. As far as I remember, I once said I never begged for mercy, but here I am. Begging you. Don’t push me to…other people. It’s not helping, providing me with substitutes.”

It encourages John to try again: “You never answered me. What if we were exclusive, sort of? Just…theoretically. Would you mind that?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch in a crooked, unhappy smile. “Theoretically, no, I wouldn’t mind. However, it’s not what you would find fulfilling. Because whatever we have—one would hardly describe it as a romantic entanglement.”

John chuckles, out of place, simply because he feels uneasy. “That very much depends on your definition of romantic. As for entanglement, I think it’s pretty much what we have.”

“Do we?” Sherlock asks.

He looks doubtful and sarcastic, but also…hopeful? John considers telling him something that has been tormenting him ever since Mary’s death—another secret, another betrayal, worse than flirting with some random girl. When he heard that shot in the aquarium, his first thought was, _Sherlock_. No, not even a thought—a cold wave of horror. And when he rushed in and saw it was Mary instead…for a short moment, he felt nothing but relief. A very, very short moment, but afterwards, it was hard to live with that nevertheless. Guilt was like acid, stronger than grief, burning through him from the inside. He couldn’t bear facing Sherlock and remembering. No matter how things had turned out between him and Mary, it was unfair, being glad it was her.

In the end, John says nothing about it—it’s his burden to carry, not Sherlock’s. Instead, he steps close and grabs Sherlock by the hair.

“We do, if I say so.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t argue. No clever comeback.

“I’m not going to punish you for contacting that dominatrix,” John continues. “However…” He pauses, deliberately, and it’s nice, to see the expression on Sherlock’s face morphing from guarded surprise to wary expectation. “I think we need to give you some new context. Whenever you hear her text alert, whenever you play that tune you composed for her, whenever you think of her at all…you’ll remember this day, remember our talk, remember where it got you in the end—on your back, with my fist inside you. And to make this context sink in…”

It’s delightfully easy, to tear the sheet away from Sherlock’s shoulders, to flip him over and to wrestle him down, the way John wants him, over his lap.

Sherlock doesn’t resist, not for real, just tries to protest, “John, I’m…”

“Filthy? Yes, you are,” John confirms cheerfully. “Still covered in my come. Still very tender, I believe, after what I’ve done to you.”

He taps at Sherlock’s backside, almost gently, but it makes Sherlock gasp nevertheless.

“And I’m going to do more, so much more,” John says. It’s both a warning and a promise.

A sharp smack. And another one. And another.

Sherlock writhes and groans through gritted teeth, but he’s not going anywhere. John won’t let him. He knows it, and Sherlock knows it, but it’s most enjoyable to have Sherlock struggling, even if half-heartedly, and to feel how _alive_ he is.

“That’s”—smack—“what you”—smack—“are going to remember,” John declares smugly. Something tells him Sherlock won’t delete this.

In the end, Sherlock stops thrashing and sags in John’s hold, accepting the blows, only making delicious growling sounds at each one. John delivers a few more because he wants to and then just keeps his hand pressed to Sherlock’s warm arse, waiting for him to calm down. Eventually, Sherlock shifts in John’s lap, but doesn’t get up like John expects him to. Instead, he turns and tentatively puts his arms around John’s midriff, very loosely, as if he suspects he might be rejected, and when John doesn’t rebuff him, presses his forehead to John’s chest, his breathing still uneven.

It’s the second hug in a day that John has got from him, which is two hugs too many to be normal, but obviously, at the moment, ‘normal’ and ‘fine’ are both relative terms when it comes to Sherlock. Or him. So John doesn’t question what it means and simply pulls Sherlock close, sweat and come notwithstanding.

“Now you’re filthy too,” Sherlock murmurs into his shirt.

“Yep.”

“You’ll have to clean up. Do the laundry.”

“Definitely.”

“Does that mean you’re staying for the night?”

John makes an amused sound, rubbing little circles between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “That’s a good deduction, yeah. Was it intentional, getting me dirty?”

“What if it was?”

It sounds almost playful and defiant, something John thought might be lost between them. For some reason, he finds it hard to keep his voice stern and steady when he says, “You know it will have consequences, don’t you?”

“If one of them is you staying, maybe I don’t mind the rest?”

“You should probably wait until you learn what the rest is,” John tells him in a mentor tone. “Which you will do tomorrow.”

Why spoil a surprise? Besides, Sherlock has to recover after today’s _not-punishment_.

Now, shower first. Sherlock might still be unsteady on his feet, he’ll need help with that. Then John will change the bedclothes. He never minded being the one to do the housework. And afterwards…Sherlock’s bed for them both, or him sleeping on the sofa or upstairs? What will be less awkward?

When things finally come to that point, it isn’t much of a choice, though. Sherlock is still clingy in a very possessive way, so he just pulls John to bed and it seems like a natural thing not to argue.

They lie tightly wedged together, Sherlock’s head on John’s shoulder, and it’s such a familiar feeling that it’s almost heart-wrenching.

Sherlock pokes him in the ribs, lazily. “Do I make you feel like a complete human being?”

John can’t help a chortle. “More like a complete idiot, most of the time. But it’s okay, you’ll make up for that.”

Sherlock sighs contentedly, surely imagining the punishments John might have in store for him, and his cock twitches a little against John’s thigh. Who would have thought he’s still got the energy for that? As for John, he’d rather rest for a bit. He’s not young enough for all-night-long orgies anymore.

Come to think of it, this might be the cruelest punishment, not doing anything to Sherlock at all. Even if John will be up for more some time later, Sherlock won’t be allowed to come for quite a while. It’s time to remind him he must earn his orgasms.

John’s mind, already clouded by sleep, supplies him with a very vivid picture of Sherlock writhing on a dildo and begging for release, all his arrogance stripped off him along with his clothes.

And that’s only the beginning, mate.

John smiles to himself. They must retrieve Sherlock’s handcuffs from Mrs Hudson. It might be awkward, so it would be Sherlock’s task. Maybe he’ll just steal them back…

John hasn’t said what he should have said, turning his answer into a joke, and it’s the only thing he feels bad about. He’s never been good at saying the right things at the right moment, unless he's rehearsed them first. Sherlock and he are not entirely dissimilar in that regard.

It’s not exactly a happy ending for them both, despite what Sherlock might hope. John needs to think it over, how to arrange their life from now on, but he hasn’t been good at it so far, and he has a vague feeling there will always be something wrong and imperfect with their entanglement.

But oh well, who wants an ending anyway, however happy it might be?

**Author's Note:**

> Check out [my blog](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com/) and [my website](https://katerinaross.com/) if you want to know more about me and my kinky stories ;)


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